domino loses her mind
by Scott Summers
Summary: Domino had never had a cup of cold coffee." Has her luck run out? Please r/r!


**domino loses her mind:  
**_when luck runs out?_

* * *

Domino had never had a cup of cold coffee.

She'd ordered it and taken it to her car, her first sip (she only drank it black) always halfway between the local coffee shop and opening her door.

When she reached the car she saw her keys on the seat. She never locked her door -- and if she did she certainly didn't leave her keys inside of it.

As it were, she discovered the temperature of her coffee and her keys at the same time.

Domino stood there, cup in hand, keys in car, and said nothing. Most people would curse. Some would run back inside and demand a fresh cup, for a new pot to be made or at least a refund.

Others would pace around their car in a dire circle, unable to fathom that they had no access to their vehicle and nothing to drink.

New York's winter stung her lips more than the cold coffee, the wind brushing her hair from her face and shoulders. The coffee fell to the ground and exploded as she pulled her collar closer to her face and walked home.

* * *

Though she'd insisted it was ridiculous (to Nathan Summers, the only other person who'd ever been inside of her now-and-again apartment), Domino was glad she'd stored a spare key under a doormat in front of her door. She grabbed at it quickly, more humiliated by the second and jammed it into the lock.

When it broke off in her hand she nearly screamed -- but instead focused, arching back and planting her foot into the door. It collapsed inward against her boot, slamming against the wall behind it and back toward her.

She walked inside, grabbed her phone and dialed.

It had been seven hours since she'd called Samuel Guthrie. She'd nearly left a message.

What would she say?

"Sam, you're the only person out there who probably knows how to get ahold of Nate. No, you're perfectly fine to talk to, you just aren't _him_."

Toying with the idea of calling the Xavier Institute, she did what any woman of her stature would do: throw the phone across the room.

Domino had never needed their help _before_. She certainly didn't need it now.

She pulled her fingertips to her temples, knowing perfectly well that she didn't need to, and tried to clear her mind.

She focused on Nathan Summers. Cable. Her friend, partner and sometimes more.

She could see his scarred face; his war tokens. His eyes were clear to her, she could see his body... _that body_... his arms, his legs. His gun.

She missed his big gun. (Even a woman like Domino had needs.)

And then she did it. Garnishing every ounce of telepathic training she'd ever had, remembering everything he'd ever told her...

She reached out.

_Nate. _

* * *

It had been two hours since she'd tried to contact Cable. She couldn't leave a message.

Where was he?

For a moment Domino worried about him -- but with Summers there was no telling what kind of mess was keeping him from getting back to her. And she was certain, whatever the mess, that he could handle it.

Was he even a telepath anymore?

She needed to learn to listen.

She needed friends.

It was just coffee. Cold coffee.

And keys inside of her car. She could've broken in. Easily. Without breaking the window.

She could have walked back into the coffee shop, asked for a fresh cup, walked outside, gotten into her car... and driven home.

Where she'd have her keys and a door that locked.

And probably even a little hot coffee.

"Get a grip, Domino," she said aloud, walking to her kitchen and pouring a cup of coffee she'd made herself into an old mug. She'd only been in New York for two weeks, having done some work in Madripoor for a few months... hardly enough time to refurnish.

The coffee's steam calmed her down enough to take a sip. It was hot.

Her car had probably been towed by now -- it had been close to ten hours. Why did she even drive?

Domino took another sip of coffee and made her way to the couch. The lights were off, her door was as secure as it was going to get and she was fine.

It was just cold coffee.

And the keys.

And the door.

"You already told yourself to get a grip," she said aloud again, convinced she was losing her mind.

She thought about how she'd nearly called _Cannonball _in panic mode. How she'd tried to contact Cable telepathically from New York. All over cold coffee.

She laughed.

And then she walked into her bedroom, took another sip of coffee, grabbed a loaded gun from beneath her bed and made her way to the bathroom.

Her reflection was less-than-flattering. She took another sip of coffee, sat it down on the sink and pulled the gun to the same temple she'd tried to contact Nathan with.

"Let's see what luck says about this."


End file.
